The Party's Over: Deleted Scenes
by D of The DA's Office
Summary: All that we should have seen in the first half of "The Party's Over"...


_I'm sure it will come as an immense shock to you all to learn that years ago, The Powers That Be in charge of Classic Silk Stalkings came up with the brilliant idea of cutting more and more scenes from episodes each time they reran. Well, maybe 'shocked' isn't quite the emotion we all recollect so strongly. _

_But, guess what? It has come to my attention that footage from the cutting room floor has recently been discovered, and it pertains to an episode we never knew had been cut. An episode that was always shown in its apparent entirety yet always seemed to be lacking._

_What episode could this be? Why, 'The Party's Over,' of course. The scripting for the first half of the original ep was superb and classically Silk – but definitely not enough, was it?_

_**Rita…** Chris' Sam, a most beloved and pivotal character, is supposedly murdered and all we got was twenty minutes with "some" emotion from "some" of the characters before jumping right into a normal crime of passion like nothing ever happened?!_

_We all know this couldn't be right. Here is what was missing before the investigation begins for Trisha Veil. Note: the canon for the second half of the episode remains unchanged. I invite you to sit back, reminisce Silk, and enjoy never-before-shared scenes from the riveting 'The Party's Over.'_

**The Party's Over: Deleted Scenes**

By: D of The DA's Office

* * *

The vibrant nightlife of Palm Beach rushed past Doctor Diana Roth as she auto-piloted a commute she knew well. The fifteen-minute route from her condo to the 400 Block of East Palm Drive was almost complete, yet she remembered none of the journey. Up ahead, a dizzying slew of red and blue lights split the night. Doctor Roth parked amidst the swarm of police vehicles and flashed her Medical Examiner badge to the officer who held up the crime scene tape so she could pass underneath. Each step toward the apartment building was increasingly more and more difficult. Awakened from a peaceful sleep by a shocking phone call, Diana's nightmare would now begin.

* * *

Captain Harry Lipschitz took in the crime scene with hands on his hips, his face unmoving as if it were set in stone. Detectives, uniformed officers, medical examiner personnel, fingerprint specialists, and photographers worked frantically all around him.

Their activity dimmed as he focused on the small table near the front door of the apartment.

Framed pictures arranged with loving care adorned its surface, and Harry counted himself and his wife in three of them.

With helpless desperation, the question entered his mind, _"what am I going to tell Frannie?" _

The call had come at 4:13 a.m.

At first Harry thought he had heard wrong. When Dispatch repeated the information, it knocked the wind out of him. He sat on the edge of the bed, his mind reeling, his breath wheezing.

"Is it bad, Hesch?" Fran had asked quietly.

He hadn't answered her at first. Finally, he offered a strangled, "yes."

What else could he say to her? That the young woman they valued as highly as a daughter had been brutally murdered in her apartment? No, he couldn't.

Not yet...

The Captain snapped out of his personal thoughts as Doctor Roth approached him.

"The first blast hit her in the back on the right side and threw her against the wall. The second hit her full in the face. Captain, I think I'm gonna hand this off."

"No, you're not," was the matter-of-fact response. "You're the best I've got, and I want you on this."

Diana was emphatic through her grief. "I don't think I can."

"Yes, you can, and, yes, you will," Harry stated with matching conviction, not in any mood to argue.

Before Diana could protest further, their attention was drawn to the open doorway of the apartment, as two officers refused to let Sergeant Lorenzo enter.

"Let him through," the Captain ordered. "You're not supposed to be here, Lorenzo."

"I know, I got your message, but I'm cool, I'm fine." His gaze shifted to the black body bag on the floor. "I _know_ that that's not Rita. You let me look at the body and I'll prove it to you."

Harry's demeanor instantly softened. "There's not much left to see."

The attitude took Chris by surprise, and he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Wait a minute, what's going on here? I should have known this was happening. You're both so sure and I'm telling you _that's_ not Rita!" Without thinking, he moved over to the table of pictures, as if the images of his Sam would back him up and share his frantic confidence.

"You're not supposed to be here," Harry reiterated quietly. "Don't...don't touch that, it hasn't been dusted."

"I can help, Cap, you gotta let me stay."

"The only thing you're going to do is make everyone feel like you," Diana softly, painstakingly supplied, her tone begging for understanding. "You're going to be all we see – you and Rita."

The simple truth behind both statements spoke volumes.

Chris and Rita shared a bond that was legendary to their coworkers, to the comrades now forced to process Rita's apartment as a scene. Evidence of their incomparable friendship was at every turn, and the mere sight of Chris without Rita was daunting, as foreign as it was heartbreaking.

Diana knew that no one recognized this reality more than Chris did, and this was no place for him to be right now. Taking hold of his arm, she guided him away from the Captain, and leaned in to him so they could talk more privately. "Please, Chris," she implored. "I need you to head up to the station. You know it's killing me to work this, but I promise... I _promise_ you, Chris, I'll get you your answers. Do you trust me?"

"D..." Chris responded wearily, not needing to elaborate the question's solitary answer.

"But the only way for me to do that, is if you're back at the shop. I need to focus, I – I need all the concentration I can manage."

Their eyes locked and a whirlwind of unspoken thoughts and emotions passed between them, including the somber knowledge that while they constantly swapped Olympic-caliber innuendoes and teases, their friendship had never endured a conversation as serious as that which had just transpired.

"Come on," the Cap interjected, "come on." He clasped a hand firmly on Chris' shoulder and began leading him to the door. To one of the officers guarding the perimeter he ordered, "I want you to take Sergeant Lorenzo back to the station." He then refocused his attention on his troubled detective. "Now, look, Chris. You knew Rita better than anybody. You look at the cases. You think about her personal life, who could have done this to her. I want you to start a list. You don't leave nobody off, you got it? Huh?"

"Yeah..."

"Okay. Go ahead." Harry watched Chris trudge away and turned back to the diligent commotion bustling throughout Rita's home. For another four hours he steeled himself against the sorrow ever-building within him, his level of command forbidding any expression. But when at last the apartment door was finally closed, sealed with evidence strips and roped off by crime scene tape, Captain Lipschitz found himself traveling in the direction opposite from the Palm Beach Police Department.

In the middle of their living room, Harry held the love of his life as she wept uncontrollably in his arms, fighting his own tears to no avail.

* * *

"I'm sorry, George... I know Rita was your friend."

George nodded mutely, managing a weak smile for the assistant who offered her condolences.

He entered his office and closed the door. After standing motionless for a minute just inside the room, he finally snapped out of his reminiscent reverie and went through the motions of setting down his briefcase and hanging up his sports coat.

Numbly, he thumbed through a stack of messages on his desk without really seeing them, until one caught his attention, stunning him like a slap in the face.

Rita's handwriting greeted him...letting him know which of the days the following week she would be available for trial prep.

George let the note fall back to the desk. He crossed over to the window and stared out at the city.

He had left for work before dawn this morning, just to drive. He needed the extra time to try and process what Captain Lipschitz had told him, and he wasn't able to share his pain with Andrea.

How could he?

Once upon a time he had had a crush on Rita, but those misguided feelings were long gone, and now he simply missed a wonderful friend and an excellent detective.

Andrea just wouldn't understand.

* * *

Leather-on-leather contact resounded repeatedly through an otherwise silent apartment as gloved fists pounded mercilessly against a black heavy bag. Chris had persuaded the uniforms to just let him head back home before going back to the bullpen. There was no way he could be up there yet. Wrath and grief like none he had ever experienced surged through him, and he unleashed everything he had onto the bag. His outward senses were reduced as he was untouched by physical pain; blinded by rage, sweat, and tears; deafened by the pounding of his blood that blocked out all sound except that from his thoughts.

_He should have known._

His left fist threatened to slam completely through the bag.

_He should have sensed something._

His right connected even harder, followed by his left, then back with his right, in a furious, continuous combination he just couldn't stop.

_Why hadn't he felt anything?! Why couldn't he tell instinctively that Rita needed him?!_

_"Miss Lance checked out at 8:34 yesterday morning..."_

A split second after hanging up with Dispatch, Chris had placed a frantic call to Sanibel Island's Westwind Inn.

It was a conversation that was forever burnt into his brain.

"_Westwind Inn, this is Dana, may I help you?"_

"_Dana, my name is Sergeant Chris Lorenzo. I'm a Homicide detective with the Palm Beach Police. Is there a manager I could speak with, please?"_

"_I'm sorry, Sergeant, our manager won't be in until six a.m. But, let me transfer you to our concierge, Mr. Santiago_..._"_

"..._Raúl Santiago, I am Concierge for Westwind. How may I assist you, Sergeant?"_

"_Mr. Santiago, I have some information I need you to take down. Detective Sergeant Christopher Lorenzo_..._my badge number is three twelve_..._Palm Beach Police Department, Homicide_..._and my commanding officer is Captain Harry Lipschitz. Sir, my partner, Rita Lance, was supposed to be a guest at your motel, and I need to know that she is still there."_

"_I'm sorry, Sergeant, I really can't –"_

"_Please, Mr. Santiago_..._ I know you normally wouldn't give out that information, but I can assure you that this is a police emergency. I __**really**__ need to know her whereabouts, sir."_

"_All right, Detective, I'll look_..._ Well, according to our records, Miss Lance checked out at 8:34 yesterday morning_..._"_

_Checked out_...

Even the echo pierced Chris' heart and tore apart his soul.

He vaguely remembered giving the concierge the direct line to the Homicide Division, but everything had blurred after he learned Rita wasn't at the motel.

He had counted on her being there.

She _had_ to be there.

At that point the panic, which had been surging through him at a feverish rate, slowly settled into a cold, paralyzing fear that continued to rock his very existence.

* * *

George walked the busy corridor of the Homicide Division, in search of Chris. Spotting his troubled friend, it struck him that he was looking at half a person. George had used many collective terms for the 'Lance and Lorenzo' duo throughout the years, but they were always just that: collective. Chris was now moving through the commotion as if he were in his own dimension, emanating an emptiness that screamed its silence above the actual din of the hallway.

Catching up to him, George tried to break through his numbed, defeated abyss, but was unsuccessful until a punk perpetrator made a lewd comment about Rita and Chris hurled him to the wall.

When George had calmed Chris back down, he asked, "can you talk about it?"

"There's not much to talk about, George. I was in Miami most of last week. I went to testify in the Cooper trial. Rita was here going nuts cuz it was so slow."

"Yeah, we went to lunch a couple of times. She was talking about taking a couple of personal days."

A weak version of Chris' patented Lorenzo-grin surfaced. "Yeah, she wanted to go up to Sanibel. She was going to kick back, read some of her trashy novels." The smile slowly faded. "When I got back last night, I called her. Got her machine."

"I don't know what to say."

"Neither do I, George," Chris exclaimed, appearing lost. So lost.

"Is there any chance she could still be in Sanibel?"

"I called... They said she checked out yesterday morning."

"What possible reason?"

Chris ticked off a few scenarios, until the effort to speak and speculate became too great. George placed a supportive hand on Chris' shoulder, and Chris closed his eyes and sank deeper.

* * *

The automated door of the Main Autopsy Bay opened, and a few seconds later Doctor Roth entered, having swapped her suit for her official uniform of jade-green scrubs and white lab coat that was marked with the insignia of the Palm Beach County Medical Examiner's Office. She stared at the floor tiles until she was fully in the room, as she couldn't bring herself to lay eyes on the uniformed officer on guard near the end of the hall. For the Palm Beach PD, whenever a police officer died, it was customary for another officer to stand watch with the body from the hospital, to the M.E.'s Office, to the funeral home, to the cemetery. It was a practice Diana deeply respected. She teared up every time, but today... Today, the gesture held personal gratitude. She knew the higher-ups were taking no chances – if there was the slightest possibility that Detective Sergeant Rita Lee Lance was here, she, was to be guarded. Diana also knew that there was no short supply of potential sentries. Rita was beloved across the whole Department, by those who knew her personally, and by those who knew her by reputation alone.

"Thanks for covering the rest of the docket for me today, Al," Diana remarked wearily to her Deputy Chief. Opening various drawers and cabinets she loaded her arms with the necessary paperwork, clipboard, hand-held recorder and tape, latex gloves, and long-sleeved plastic gown.

"You sure you don't want any help in there, Diana?"

"I'll be fine, Al. Thanks, though."

"Here you go, Doc," an investigator said, handing Diana her face shield – long since personalized by the staff with "Chief D" across the front – and a cartridge of film. "Your camera and everything are all set up."

Diana nodded. "I appreciate it, Davis." Louder for the other five people in room, she added, "Case Review Meeting at one, guys."

Al nodded. Gently, he began removing the items from Diana's arms. "I'll put these in there for you. Go take care of your lab coat." Off Diana's eye roll, he nodded with complete empathy. Tilting his head toward the room next door, he softly remarked, "you call me if you need anything."

* * *

Fran Lipschitz sat on the edge of the living room couch with hands folded limply in her lap. For the moment, her tears had ebbed, and she gazed unseeing at the opposite wall. Those who knew her well would recognize the posture, ram-rod straight as always, but never the stillness. Frannie was an entity perpetually in motion, every cell practically buzzing with life and movement. No, this staggering inactivity spoke volumes.

Her mind had quieted and slowed, more or less reflecting the waning of her shock. She could now concentrate on each thought and feeling from her unique position.

For twenty years now, Frannie had held the title of a Captain's wife. It was a role akin to a precinct's elder stateswoman or First Lady, and she performed her duties well. Like all spouses of officers, it put her as close to the job as any civilian could possibly get; however, it also magnified her proximity because with her husband's rank came subordinates. She didn't have to worry simply about her own spouse, but all the people who served underneath him as well. And Chris and Rita were so much more than simply Harry's detectives. They were family. Not just family by the blue blood of the police force...real family. Harry had lost officers before and Frannie had grieved for them all and comforted those left behind, but never through the eyes and heart of a motherly figure. It was so different with this special pair.

Why?

Was it their captivating personalities? Their spellbinding, albeit unconfessed, love that mirrored hers and Hesch's? Was it their lack of parental presences?

The answers would not come, and it mattered not. Fran loved the 'Sams' as they called one another, it was as simple as that.

_The Sams_...

Fran's sorrow swelled at the unifying term. How virtually impossible it was to separate Rita from Christopher at first thought... They were always mentioned together, seen together, heard laughing together. They were as one.

Frannie understood such a bond. Her Hesch had often said that a good partnership was like a good marriage, and as a die-hard romantic with such a "good" marriage for nearly forty years, Fran knew that Chris and Rita's connection was so much stronger than mere partners and even that of best friends. She wondered if the young man she valued as highly as a son was aware of the expression his face and soul broadcast to the world every time he looked at Rita. What a crippling blow to Christopher's heart and overall identity.

Fran worried deeply on how he was coping. His was a pain that could swallow him whole if left unchecked. In the past, she had known several of Harry's coworkers who had survived physically but never recovered from such a loss. What a double tragedy it would be if Christopher lost the impassioned, noble fire of his spirit that Frannie so admired in him. The heartbreaking paradox, she feared, was that Rita would be the only outside force capable of penetrating Chris' anguish...

The tears returned to Frannie's eyes, as her thoughts returned to the other Sam, now gone.

_Oh, Rita_...

What a beautiful person, inside and out.

Initially, Fran had warned Rita off her Hesch, knowing how the novice officers were always attracted to him. She needn't have bothered, she now realized. While she maintained her misgivings for Grace in Dispatch, Rita had long-since moved into a more trusted role of daughter, forever exhibiting an integrity, wisdom, and poise beyond her years.

One would have expected a Homicide Detective so young to appear hardened and jaded, but, like a welcomed beacon in today's society, Rita drew everyone she encountered to share in her love and respect for life. Frannie, an ex-nurse also accustomed to death and the cruelty of humanity, had found a kindred spirit in Rita, and couldn't help but mourn at how much she would miss the young woman's all-encompassing vibrance.

Such a shocking contrast to the events of the early morning.

In a futile effort to halt her imagination, Fran vigorously shook her head. As a lay person, she did not possess the opportunity to witness firsthand the real sights, sounds, smells, and sentiments of a homicide scene – but that meant creating them all for herself in her own head, and Fran was plenty creative. At a time like this, she could argue it cast a heavier burden. Then, of course, there was the issue of powerlessness. Her Harry had work to keep him occupied; the knowledge that he and his staff would actively bring the fiendish murderer to justice. Frannie, on the other hand, was left to wait. Wait, think, grieve, seethe. No, it certainly wasn't easy being a civilian at a time like this.

Mercifully, though, this civilian's innate, elemental need for motion was slowly resurfacing. Fran recognized that her husband's squad needed her right now, especially one detective in particular. With head held high she arose and made her way to the kitchen. Cooking would calm her soul, and she was acutely aware that Palm Beach's Homicide Division would not be taking the time to eat on their own accord. By her authority as their Captain's wife and by the inescapable charm that simply made her Frannie, she knew they would be enticed by a comforting, home-cooked meal suffused with love.

* * *

Dr. Roth stood motionless, head bent low, bracing her arms against the cold stainless-steel counter that ran the length of the Special Autopsy Bay.

She couldn't turn around.

If she turned around...

She shouldn't even be in this room. Chief or not, she should have been exempt – she was so close on this one she shouldn't be within a mile of this place.

And yet, here she stood.

Well, if she was powerless to avoid her own involvement, as Chief Medical Examiner she possessed the power to order her staff to stand clear of this area. The usual two autopsy attendants and one investigator were three people too many, and her demands were not to end there.

Diana had fought vehemently to take the fingerprints herself. Normally, a police specialist would come to take the prints of a homicide victim, but since she was fully-trained on the process, Dr. Roth had refused to let anyone be with her in the autopsy bay. If protocol was to be broken with her handling the autopsy of what could be a dear friend, then protocol could stand to grant her sole access of the procedures therein. No negotiation, no spectators.

The low hum of the ventilation system suddenly seemed to be roaring and echoing all around her, and Diana vigorously shook her head, searching for the professional detachment that had served her so well in the past.

The answers she vowed to Chris she'd find were on the table behind her. She owed them to him, to Rita, and to herself. With a deep breath, Diana turned around and began to work.

Positive identification had not yet been established.

Dr. Roth was a scientist. By the laws governing her profession, she was obligated to accept the staggering circumstantial evidence, but she also required the hardcore, scientific result of this unknown variable. Until she had her proof, that meant struggling to keep both her grief and her hope at bay.

The hands...

Were the hands really those of her close friend? How many times had Diana sat across from Rita at lunch? How many times had she watched Rita taking notes at a scene? Diana found herself second-guessing every feature.

Staring one last time at the small card with its ten ink prints, Diana packaged it up, stepped out into hall, and called for Al. As the Deputy Chief approached her, she exclaimed, "get this over to Captain Lipschitz as fast as you can."

"I'll deliver it myself," Al promised.

With a silent prayer, Diana watched him hurry away. The result of this test would make or break many hearts that loved Rita.

* * *

Doctor Roth steeled her mind to remain blank. She blocked out the circumstances, narrowing her entire focus to the meticulous implementation of each step and technique in the autopsy process. This microscopic view was vital – not only to Diana's safety as she worked, but also to not miss a single detail.

She rolled the body in front of her onto its left side, bracing it in place with a triangular, foam wedge.

Carefully, she inserted a long metal rod into the entrance wound on the back-right side and followed the path of the shot until the probe extended a few inches out of the exit wound. She noted its position and reached for her camera, snapping a picture before moving to the head of the table to study that last angle and take one more photo. Then, she removed the probe and wedge, easing the body gently back down to the table. Grabbing her recorder, she turned away and noted her findings.

"Track I has a trajectory right to left, back to front, slightly downward. The entrance is an area three inches by four inches, approximately twenty-five inches from the estimated top of head, three and a half inches to the right of the midline. There is a one-and-a-half-inch abrasion consistent with wadding impact. Three projectiles were recovered from the subcutaneous tissue of the anterior right upper abdominal quadrant. This is consistent with the number of buckshot and casings found at the scene.

"Track II is front to back, slightly downward. The eyes and nose are destroyed, with fragmentation of the facial bones, bones of the skull, and the rest of the bony cranium. There is complete fragmentation of the brain and its coverings. Recovered brain weighs only 987 grams. No projectiles recovered."

Dr. Roth paused.

"The cause of death is Multiple Shotgun Wounds. The manner of death...is Homicide."

* * *

Diana trudged to the locker room, washed up, and changed into a new pair of scrubs. Wanting her lab coat back, she fiddled, unseeingly, with the combination on her locker. After three failed attempts, she inhaled sharply, willing herself to focus on this simple task. She then had to force herself to actually reach up and retrieve the jacket off its hook. As she brought it down, her gaze fell upon two new photos she had added to the collage on the inside door. One was of her and Rita out on the town, and the other was her with Chris and Rita eating lunch at the Roach Coach.

Diana closed her locker and leaned her forehead against its frame. Feeling the strength leave her, she turned, sliding down the length of the metal as she crumpled to the floor.

* * *

A blank sheet of paper lay untouched on Chris' desk. Detectives were starting to leave the Homicide Division, but their diminishing numbers barely registered with Chris. Staring at Rita's empty chair when he should have been staring at her beautiful face, countless feelings blazed through him, but only a single thought looped constantly in the forefront of his mind:

This was wrong.

This just couldn't be.

Not... Not like this.

God forbid, if Chris was ever to lose Rita it was supposed to be under the pretext of 'serve and protect.' On the job. In the line of duty. He didn't know if he'd be able to survive even those circumstances, but at least Rita's death would have purpose.

But, losing her while she walked the floors of her _home_ in the middle of the night?!

This was just senseless and unacceptable.

Unbeknownst to Chris, Harry was regarding him with helpless desperation. The Captain loathed the speech, playing and replaying in his mind, that he knew he needed to impart. This wouldn't be the first time he had given it, and each time made him feel older. He had yet to find any replacement that didn't sound just as empty and meaningless.

Harry approached Chris and began to speak, almost cringing at the request for Chris to prepare himself for the fingerprint match. He might as well have asked his young detective to stop breathing, it was that impossible a task.

True to form, Chris jumped on the appeal. "How do you get ready for something like that, Cap?" She was a part of me. I've never been as close to anybody in my life as I was to her." He intoned reverently, "she's Rita..."

"If this were any other case you would've dug your teeth in, and you wouldn't let go. Am I right, kid? Hey, am I right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. You've gotta do it now. We all gotta."

Chris' eyes welled up with tears. "I keep thinking about her... I found a box of letters in her apartment. They were from friends, lovers, a couple from me. And, I've been reading 'em. And they all say the same thing: they all say how everybody loved her." Chris broke down even more. "And I keep thinking, 'I shouldn't even be reading these,' you know? I feel like I'm trespassing, but..." he inhaled deeply and stated with conviction, "there's nothing about Rita that I don't already know... Except, why she died!" And, in hearing himself say it out loud, Chris' heart completely shattered.

"Hey... Come on. Come on, come on, come on..." With an arm around each other's shoulders, Harry led Chris out of the station.

* * *

Chris ducked under the crime scene tape blocking the doorway to Rita's apartment. Taking out his keys, he looked around before selecting the one his Sam had given him long ago and slicing it through the evidence seals before inserting it in the lock. He knew he would catch hell for this breach in protocol, but he didn't care. Without Rita's physical presence, he just had to be surrounded by everything else that was hers.

He stepped in to the darkness that mirrored his entire day and emotions. Exhaling loudly, he was drawn once again to the table of photographs. Clicking on the small lamp, Chris gazed at the pictures of Rita's treasured ones: the Lipschitzes, Diana...himself.

So many of him and Rita together.

He gently selected his and Rita's favorite where he was behind her, embracing her with an arm around her, and she was leaning into him. Lovingly, Chris stroked her paper face and smiled, but the expression was fleeting. Pain consumed him and his hand stilled over her image. Desperate to recapture the closeness he felt so lost without, he slowly closed his eyes and surrendered to countless, precious memories.

With great effort, he broke from his reminiscent reverie, and set down the picture. Just as he was reaching for another, the sound of the door being unlocked broke the silence. In one fluid motion, Chris doused the light and whipped out his gun, training it on the entryway.

The figure shrouded by the shadows entered the apartment, taking a final glance at the crime scene tape before flipping on the light of the foyer.

Chris felt the heart in his chest stop beating.

He gaped incredulously, praying the vision before him was real, and wouldn't disappear.

Impossibility raged against reality.

Rita stared back curiously, remarking innocently, "hello," to him and the barrel of his gun.

Chris tried unsuccessfully to process what he was seeing, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, the need to hold her outweighing the need for explanation. With a laugh and a speed rivaling that of lightning, he raced over and crushed her frame to his.

Rita fully accepted this bear hug that completely lifted her off her feet, not batting an eye at the contact, but clearly concerned and confused over the need for such a greeting.

"What – what is going on?" she asked, her voice cracking as Chris gripped her even tighter, if that were possible.

He didn't even hear her words at first. Never in Chris' entire life had he felt so blessed...

He hadn't lost her.

She was here, she was safe, and he could feel his soul again. The tone of her voice finally filtered through his cyclone of thoughts and emotions, providing him with an even greater sense of peace.

Rita sounded worried.

She sounded worried because she could read him better than anyone, and she didn't understand the emotion she saw and felt from him. Their bond remained intact; he hadn't missed the rush.

"Oh, Rita..."

His reason for living.

Chris closed his eyes and memorized every detail of the moment. God, how he loved her. The profession slipped out loud several times, mingling with the mantra of her name. He couldn't get enough of her name on his lips or her body in his arms. One hand continuously alternated between pressing on her back and cupping her head. Elation flooded his senses, consuming every fiber of his being.

At last, her actual words sank in: what _was _going on?

As abruptly as he had come to her, Chris returned Rita to the floor and moved away; however, not before catching the glimpse of disappointment and ever-mounting confusion that flashed across her face at the loss of contact.

Chris' thoughts were a blur as he grasped for a mental handle on the situation.

_How?_

_She's alive_...

"Where the hell...have you been?" Chris turned back to Rita, noting she was still completely clueless.

"What are you doing here?" she asked more firmly.

Chris ignored the question with a Lorenzo-patented "hah!." He ran back and swooped her up again, spinning them around and around until they were both laughing uncontrollably.

When he finally allowed Rita to fully enter her own apartment, Chris walked backwards in front of her, never once taking his eyes off her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked a second time.

"We all thought that you were dead."

"Well, no," Rita laughed, "I just went as far as Sanibel."

"No, Rita, I'm not kidding you: everybody thinks...that you're dead."

"I'm sorry," she exclaimed, genuinely contrite.

"Yeah, but you weren't in Sanibel last night – I called the motel."

"No, I stayed in Naples last night on my way home. Why is there crime scene tape on my door, and where is Trisha?"

"Uh, who's Trisha?"

"Trisha Veil! What – what the hell happened?"

Chris offered an accelerated version of all that had transpired, and Rita sank onto the armrest of the couch as she processed the information.

"Was she a close friend?" Chris asked.

"Not really, I mean... But, I trusted her if that's what you're talking about."

Chris stroked the side of Rita's head as she spoke, barely capable of concentrating on her words.

"Oh, man! I was so scared..." He embraced her for yet another time. "Mmm... Come here."

As they sat down on the couch, Rita regarded Chris with somber curiosity. "So, you really thought I was dead?"

"Yeah..." Chris nodded slowly, his words trailing off. Oh, what he could say. Instead, he reclaimed safe territory by opting for humor. "So, ah, I've been here. Um, going through your personal stuff..." he offered a guilty, sideways glance at Rita, "...your letters."

"My letters."

"It's a homicide investigation," he remarked innocently.

"Ah." Rita tried to get a grasp on everything. She knew procedure, and the invasion of privacy which would have taken place, but she definitely didn't appreciate being on the receiving end.

They continued in partner-mode, discussing possible reasons for the murder, why Rita should spend the night somewhere else – and why she shouldn't be the one to call Diana to ask to sleep at her place.

Chris exclaimed, "Diana is ninety percent sure that you are in a drawer at the morgue."

"Okay," Rita consented, still in shock over the entire situation.

"You know? You look..._wonderful_," Chris remarked sincerely, as Rita blushed, and they hugged. In all seriousness, he conveyed, "good to see you."

* * *

The last thing Chris wanted to do was let Rita out of his sight for even a second. However, he stepped out of the living room to make some much-needed phone calls, his joy ever-mounting as he was privileged enough say "Rita's alive" to three separate, special friends.

Rita, in turn, used the time to play back her answering machine messages.

"_Message one, Thursday, 7:42 p.m.: _S-am, put down your trashy novel and come watch a movie with me. I'll even let you pick 'Double Indemnity' over 'Casablanca.'"

Rita giggled as the messages went on, getting sillier and sillier, as was Chris' custom whenever she went away on a trip. Suddenly, her laughter stopped.

"_Message five, Friday, 4:17 a.m.:_ Rita? I, uh – sorry for calling so early, but I just got off the phone with your motel and they said you checked out yesterday. Please, Sam, I know you're all right – you've gotta be all right – I, I just need you to give me a call as soon as you get this."

The anxiety – no, the absolute fear – in Chris' recorded voice was almost palpable, and it took Rita's breath away. She closed her eyes and hung her head, bracing her mouth on the back of her left hand.

It had been so easy for her to think this wasn't a big deal.

Her warm lips brushed unconsciously back and forth against the cool metal of her Irish friendship ring, as she lost herself in the sobering realization of Chris' position.

Rita hadn't received "that" call, hadn't feared the mirror of her own soul had been murdered. She hadn't gone to her best friend's apartment knowing it was a homicide scene, and she hadn't participated in the investigation of her partner's death.

And, she hadn't spent the last sixteen hours wondering if this nightmare was the first day of the rest of her life without her Sam.

But her Christopher _had_...

Chris re-entered the living room. "Ready, Sam?"

The response to his question was delayed in its coming, as Rita took a moment to center herself before turning around to face him. When she finally moved, solemn green eyes penetrating deep into questioning blue, she softly replied, "no, come here."

Understanding intuitively, Chris rapidly crossed the room, but Rita couldn't wait, and she met him halfway, throwing her arms around his neck and anchoring her petite form against his muscular one. Chris buried his head into the side of Rita's neck, and she in turn soothingly stroked his hair, eager to convey that she was indeed safe...and right where she belonged.

"I'm right here, Sam..." Rita murmured. "I'm fine, it – it wasn't me." She squeezed him even tighter. "I'm right here, Chris."

The warmth of Rita's body, the feel of her pulse, the exhale of her breath... Chris lost himself in these affirmations of life, committing each to memory. "Rita, I was so scared..."

The heartfelt, veracious confession was whispered so faintly Rita heard it more with her soul than she did her ears.

"I thought I had failed you."

"You...could _never_ fail me, Christopher. You know that – and _I_ know that."

Neither of the Sams addressed Chris' earlier profession of love, normally left unspoken. It was a truth forever simmering, certainly nothing new, but the current circumstances had granted yet another pass from confronting the issue head-on. Nevertheless, they remained in each other's arms, a hold that was as essential to the two best friends as was oxygen.

Rita realized that her machine was stuck on its final message, which was a hang-up.

"That was me, too," Chris explained quietly. "The Cap made me leave your apartment, and I was going nuts sitting across from your desk with you not being there. I called your machine just to hear your voice... I – I needed to hear your voice."

* * *

In a dark office of the Homicide Division, a commanding officer felt the heavy weight of grief suddenly lift, and eagerly rushed home to abate the similar despair of his spouse.

In a bustling hallway of the judiciary building, an Assistant District Attorney sat oblivious to all activity, still clutching the cell phone that had just relayed a miraculous message.

In a quiet, vacant laboratory, a doctor hung up her phone, closed her eyes, and let tears of relief and joy stream unrestrictedly down her face.

In a colorful apartment of the 400 Block of East Palm Drive, two best friends lay sprawled out on a couch, locked in tight embrace and blanketed by a loving silence.

All was right with the world.

**_The End_**

* * *

_Author's Notes_

'The Party's Over: Deleted Scenes' follows along the genre I mention in my profile: fan-fiX. Rita's 'death' should never have been taken so lightly, and Diana should never have been forced to conduct an autopsy on someone she thought was Rita.

_Always complicated_

At the beginning of this story, I commended the writers of TPO for the first half of the ep. Well, let me clarify: I commend them for the emotional stuff! Everything else is simply maddening. One contradiction after another, timelines that just don't make sense...oy. I encourage you to dust off your copy of this episode and take a good look at all the scenes before the investigation for Trisha begins. I know you will appreciate my plight.

_Never would have happened_

Okay, I of course wanted to increase the amount of emotions and characters involved in Rita's "death," and therefore I had to focus on the straight canon facts/timeline. What was most difficult for me was the battle of canon versus common sense and real-life truth. For starters, I despise Diana's line of "I'm afraid it's really her" and therefore omitted it. If "what's left of [Rita]" can only be positively ID'ed by fingerprints, then Dr. Roth would _never_ have gone on record with such a bold statement without proof. And as for the proof, Rita would have been ruled out as the victim _long _before most of the canon _and_ 'Deleted Scenes' emotional plot would have transpired. She's a cop, her prints are on file, the Cap had everybody working this case, the negative ID would have been apparent within hours if not minutes.

_Shouldn't have happened_

Above all, I obviously know that it is Rita who deserved so much more than canon offered her. I also believe that Chris' involvement and emotions were understated, and he deserved more. But, the character whose role was handled most poorly because of her professional involvement? Diana. Hands down.

In real life, it would depend on the jurisdiction as to whether or not Diana would be allowed/forced to oversee "Rita's" autopsy. Television crime drama, however, usually operates under the "you're too close" rule. Not here. No, here we have Diana performing an autopsy on a victim who just might be one of her best friends. A friend, whose injuries are so extensive, identification is in question. I find this so cruel and heart-wrenching because I've seen facial damage that bad. I know the effects of shotgun blast to the face, and I know the cutting and sawing and sewing that go into an autopsy because I perform most of them daily.

During the course of writing this story, every time I had to work on a person who presented the severe facial deformation that mimicked so-called 'Rita's,' I would think "this is what Diana saw. This is what she thought had happened to her close friend. She thought had to use the tools of her trade to cut on her _friend_. She would literally have 'Rita's' blood on her hands..."

Unbelievable.

I am uncertain if I possess the necessary amount of detachment needed for such a task, and for me Diana's predicament is one of the most powerful aspects of "The Party's Over" and needed to be explored.

_Details, details_

* "I should have known this was happening..." Yeah, well, _I_ should have known what this meant. It pains me to admit this, but the true meaning of this line never struck me until I was contemplating the original idea around which I built this fan-fic. The one scene I really think we should have seen in TPO, is Chris just attacking his heavy bag. To me, he would be completely enraged at himself for not knowing Rita was in trouble. She means too much to him, and he feels too close to her. Ding, ding, ding! Oh, _that's _what they meant by 'should have known!' When Chris asks, "what's going on here?" and says he should have known, I always thought he was referring to the investigation in general and how the Cap didn't want him there!

* Coroner's Office: fun fact, there are no Coroner's Offices in the state of Florida. There was no Coroner's Office in San Diego County at the time Silk Stalkings was filmed.

* Westwind Inn is an actual hotel on Sanibel Island.

* You may have been searching your memory banks at my mention of Chris' badge number. Don't worry, before I wrote it, I did the same thing. But, as far as I can recollect, TPTB never stated Chris or Rita's badge numbers. So, I improvised. '312' is used because that's the numbers for 'C-L' in the alphabet.

* "I need to know that she is still there..." The power of a single word, my friends. In case this line did not really catch your attention, it is important for me to point out the use of 'that' instead of 'if.' Our dear Christopher knew that Rita was staying in Sanibel, and he tells George that he called her motel. He called her motel because there had been a murder in her apartment, and he could not bring himself to believe it was his Sam. He _knows_ his Sam is in Sanibel; the price of 'if' was unimaginable. There could be no 'if'...


End file.
